


Deep Enough To Drown In

by entanglednow



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alaric can't remember how he died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deep Enough To Drown In

Alaric can't remember how he died. He remembers chasing a dark shape. He remembers the way it had moved, the blurred, unnatural speed of it. Like it wasn't quite real, wasn't all there. It had been solid one minute, and air the next. He remembers coming here to find Damon. He remembers the door...and then nothing. It's all pieces, fragments that don't join together. There's a huge black space where everything after that should be. Not even a flicker there. It's like someone dug into his head and tore that part away.

He feels strange, something not right that he can't quite put his finger on, skin itchy and too tight. His chest is slippery and warm, and when he lifts a hand he finds blood _everywhere_ , it's slicked across his neck and jaw, there are spots of it across his mouth. It's like something tore his throat out. Jesus, something may very well have torn his throat out, and he's suddenly glad that he doesn't remember what that felt like. He's glad that it's all just a black stretch of confusion.

He pushes himself to a sit and realises belatedly that he's leaving smeared red hand prints all over the Salvatore brother's antique carpets. More blood than he could ever spill out. So it's not all his then?

"Oh, don't worry about that. We know all about getting blood out."

Alaric looks up. Damon's making an effort to look bored and unconcerned by the couch. There's a confusing slumped mass of blood-streaked claws and hair next to him, it's not moving any more, possibly due to its head being at the wrong angle.

"I think it was supposed to eat you, whatever it was," Damon says, he gives the smear of blood on the back of his hand a dark look. "But I managed to convince it that I was the better choice. Irritating the crap out of absolutely everyone I meet is a skill I've mastered to the extent that I barely have to open my mouth before people are declaring me their nemesis, or trying to disembowel me." Damon's mouth quirks at the edge like he's sharing a secret. "Honestly, sometimes it's exhausting."

He takes two steps forward and lowers a hand - which Alaric is clearly supposed to use to haul himself to his feet. He does.

"A good job too, since I don't think your magical ring can bring you back after you've been digested." Damon's mouth goes down at the corner. "At least I hope it can't, because that's a disturbing mental image too far even for me."

Alaric's expecting something interested, maybe something distracted by the wash of red that coats him, so fresh that even he can smell it. Instead Damon pulls a face at him, like he's offended by all the blood that's doing its best to currently be outside of Alaric rather than in. But it's gone quickly enough, replaced by exaggerated amusement.

"I think I like this." Damon gestures with a lazy finger. "It's a good look for you."

"Damon," Alaric protests, because he's just too damn tired for this.

"What? I rescue you and I don't even get to spend a moment appreciating the site of you all bloody and helpless by moonlight?"

Alaric raises an eyebrow at him. "I'm not helpless." He doesn't know why that's the only thing he feels like objecting too. But he's never quite sure what Damon really wants, or cares about, underneath all the bullshit and the teeth marks, if anything. Maybe he's just playing at emotions until something more interesting comes along.

"I don't kill strange monsters for just anyone you know."

Alaric tries to decide if Damon wants gratitude or applause. Or whether he's making a point about Alaric's tendency to only show up when someone's being killed.

"Next time I'll bring scotch instead," Alaric says deadpan, because Damon is a bad influence.

"Now I know we're flirting," Damon says with a smile.

Normally Alaric would have something to say to that, probably something mature and considered. But he's dripping blood like a car crash victim and he can feel the wet press of it between his clothes. He's strangely light-headed in a way he's never felt coming back before.

"I'm going home," Alaric says, because being savaged to death has clearly taken it out of him.

 

*****

 

 _Damon's eyes shine black, fixed on his, wet like glass and Alaric thinks that maybe if he gets too close they'll pull him under. They're the eyes of a predator, darkness all the way down. But Alaric reaches up and pushes both hands into his hair, fingers tightening, pulling until Damon's head tips back. His eyes fall shut as the long line of this neck stretches out, mouth open just enough to draw a croak of air from him._

 _Damon is fluid, cold and strong and he smells like leather and scotch - and something hotter, sharper, heavily masculine. Something Alaric isn't used to, something he's never known how to want. But he's pulling it closer, pressing his face into the curve of Damon's throat and listening to the low steady growl. A wave of vibration he wants to dig his teeth into - and Damon's murmuring agreement like he'd said that out loud, fingers tugging at Alaric's bare skin, nails a brief, bright sensation where they catch too tightly. He's all strong, hard lines, and the years have made them sharp, but Alaric curves his hands round them and holds them and doesn't care. Alaric's whispering words into his chest that he doesn't understand. Made of rough dry consonants that leave Damon's pale skin twitching and jerking, warm and then warmer under the rush of Alaric's breath._

 _"Stop stalling and fuck me."_

 _They're just words, so Alaric ignores them, shoves until Damon is spread out, opened up underneath him, pale in a way that's just a little obscene. His fingers are impatient - painful - in Alaric's hair but he ignores that too, runs his mouth everywhere he can reach, scrapes his teeth where he finds the subtle hint of bone. Until Damon is twisting and hissing, restless and demanding, fingers digging like they want to shove his head down, or pull it up. Slur of profanity - then bliss when Alaric tips his head down and opens his mouth around him, and everything is pure, visceral pleasure._

 

*****

Alaric wakes up breathless, dizzy for a long minute, skin prickling and burning like he's been out in the sun too long. He slumps forward in the sheets, arms thrown over his knees and shakes his head. But there's a pervasive reality to the dream that he just can't shake off. The sensation of fingers in his hair, and the weight of a leg over his shoulder, lingers, refuses to leave. Phantoms echoes of memory his body shouldn't have.

He's not so deluded that he's going to pretend to be horrified, he's not repressing, he just knows how monumentally fucking stupid the idea is.

But his brain doesn't seem to want to stop.

 

*****

He finds Damon in the bar, a winding line of bitter amusement and black leather. He stiffens when Alaric gets close enough, fingers creaking on his glass. He's silent while Alaric orders a drink, while he tries to think of something to say, some way to say it. Damon turns and looks at him before he finds it. It's one long, penetrating look. Serious for once - or serious enough.

"You wouldn't, by any chance, have dreamt about fucking me lately?" he asks.

Alaric's glass clanks sharply against the salt shaker.


End file.
